Gutter Glitter
by EsotericFemale
Summary: She had the world ahead of her; he had a monkey on his back. Of all the gin joints in the world, he had to stumble into hers with a nose full of candy. Trory. Future fic. First installment in the Snow Angels in the Sandbox Trilogy.
1. Hitting the Dusty Roads

Title: Gutter Glitter

Summary: She had the world ahead of her; he had a monkey on his back. Of all the gin joints in the world, he had to stumble into hers with a nose full of candy.

Fresh off the campaign trail, Rory Gilmore lands in New York, attending a graduate program in Journalism. A bad day ends her up in a local bar, and eventually in the bed of an old, high school rival. Soon she'll learn that she's fallen into bed with an Iraqi war veteran with a very bad habit. Can she help him kick it or will she get sucked into the life? First installment of Snow Angels in the Sandbox trilogy. A Trory.

Rating: T. For some sexual content, but more for drug use, vulgar language, and violence.

Pairing: Trory.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls or any of the characters or themes related to Gilmore Girls. The paper mentioned in this chapter _The Other Paper_ is a real paper in Columbus, Ohio. I don't own it. The quotes aren't mine, and the quotes at the bottom of each chapter are from the song "Champagne" by Cavo. I don't own them and am making no profit off this story.

Author's Note: I put my PDLD on hiatus. I just wasn't in a sunny, cheery happy mood. And while there was going to be some drama in it, there wasn't enough for me. This is going to be a series of three stories. I'm not entirely sure it's going to have a happy ending. It's not for the weak of heart. I'll post my Livejournal on my profile, I'll do a lot of my author's notes there. This will be the only one that's really long. Due to hectic real life, updates will be sporadic. Stick with me though. Enjoy the story!

Chapter One: Hitting the Dusty Roads

"_He hasn't an enemy in the world—but all his friends hate him." Eddie Canlor_

_Everything was brown and yellow and dead. There was no water anywhere, just sand and dust and dirt. Even the air was dry and saturated with dust. It hurt to take a deep breath. It hurt worse to try to breathe while running. The temperatures here were hotter than anything he had endured while living in Connecticut, and even his nearly two years in North Carolina. The pain ripped through his chest and his lungs seared. His boots thudded heavily on the sand as he lugged himself and 80 pounds of gear through the desert town as fast as he could. Up ahead he could see a crowd of people bustling in the city center. He didn't have much time._

"_Clear the area, c'mon get out here, go!" He yelled at people as he ran._

_The words no sooner left his mouth when he heard the explosion and subsequent screams. He lunged at the ground for cover, taking the civilians near him down to the ground with him. Shrapnel flew all around and clouds of dust covered him. In mere minutes, it was over. He stood and checked on the civilians around him, making sure they were alright. _

_He continued his sprint through people screaming in hysteria until he came to the scene of the explosion. Bodies lay on the hard, brown earth. Shrapnel had torn their skin apart. Some were barely recognizable as the human beings they once were. At least forty men, women, and children lay on the ground, dead. Twenty more were badly injured; half of the injured wouldn't make it through the night. In the middle of the destruction was what was left of the suicide bomber. The physical damage wasn't severe. The shrapnel wouldn't have hit him. It rarely did. On the outside, a suicide bomber's body was mostly still intact, but he knew inside, it was jelly. He walked up to look at he who caused this destruction and death._

_He couldn't have been more than ten years old._

Tristan DuGrey woke up panting, cold sweat covering his body. He blinked several times willing the image of the dead Iraqi boy from his mind. As always, it didn't work. Instead, he quickly got up and went into the bathroom. He walked back into his room and retrieved the items he would need from his dresser and placed them on the nightstand beside his bed. He reached in between his mattress and box spring and retrieved a small Ziploc bag half filled with fine, white powder.

Sitting on the bed, he dumped the powder on the mirror he had just placed on his nightstand. He used his American Express Black Card to divide the powder into two neat lines on the mirror. His movements were precise and effortless with practice. Once finished, he grabbed the rolled up twenty note, fit it just inside the entrance of one nostril while plugging the other with his thumb. He leaned over the mirror and inhaled the first line through the twenty. He switched nostrils and repeated the ritual for the second line. Once both lines were gone, he threw the note back on the table and dipped his fingers into his cup of water that he'd had on the nightstand when he went to bed the night before. He quickly inhaled the water and lay back on his pillow, pinching his nose and breathing only out of his mouth. He closed his eyes and waited for the sweet, mind numbing drip.

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Rory Gilmore was having a bad day. She had slept through her alarm clock his morning, making her have to run from her apartment to her class four blocks away at Columbia University, without coffee. When she had gotten out of her class, she noted that her favorite coffee stand was closed. This resulted in a long line at the only other coffee stand this side of campus. She got to her second class of the day and took a sip of her coffee only to realize it was cold and thick and tasted like mud. After two drinks of the liquid, she gave up on the coffee and decided she would just get a cup when she arrived at work. While walking the two blocks to the newsroom of _The Other Paper_ Rory had broken the heel to her favorite shoes. She strolled into the newsroom and went straight to the break area to retrieve a much needed cup of coffee. Just her luck, the pot was empty. Sighing, she quickly set a pot and started it to brew.

That was where her boss found her: leaning against the counter in the break room waiting for the coffee to brew. One heel was broken, and she looked slightly disheveled and stressed. He could tell Rory was having a bad day, and unfortunately, he was here to make it even worse.

"Afternoon, Ms. Gilmore," he said smoothly.

"Oh, good afternoon, Stu," Rory replied, trying to muster a polite smile.

"Mind if I steal you away from the coffee pot for a moment? There's something we need to discuss in my office," he asked, offering her a small, encouraging smile.

"Oh, sure," Rory responded and followed him into his office.

"Have a seat, Ms. Gilmore," Stu said and gestured to a chair on the opposite side of his desk. "I'm sure you must be wondering what this is about. Well, why don't we just cut to the chase? As you know, the economy has been suffering a pretty big hit lately. Print news is also suffering. It is no longer the most economical and portable means of getting the news. Our paper is smaller and is having difficulty competing. Due to that, the administration has advised us to make some reduction in workforce to try to make up for the lack of profit. Unfortunately, Ms. Gilmore, your name came up on the list of cuts."

Rory sat there listening to him doing her best impersonation of a fish. Was he firing her? What did she do? What was she going to do?

As if Stu could read her mind he continued, "I assure you, it's nothing you did. We are losing a great asset to our paper with you, Ms. Gilmore. You are a great reporter and we've been lucky to have you work for us these past months. You still have until next Friday to finish up all the assignments you are working on. And rest assured, we will write a dazzling letter of reference for your next job. I wish there was more we could do for you, Ms. Gilmore. Do you have any questions?"

"N-no, sir. I think everything is clear, sir," Rory responded.

"Thank you, Ms. Gilmore. It's been a pleasure to have worked with you. You may go now," Stu dismissed her.

Rory stood and left Stu's office and made her way back to the break room in a daze. She was losing her job. In two weeks, she would have no place to work. What was she going to do now? She poured a cup of coffee and took a long drink. She cringed and sighed in defeat.

It was decaf.

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It was starting to get dark. Tristan didn't know how long he had been roaming the streets in New York. He didn't remember exactly where he was or what he was doing. In fact, he didn't remember much about that day. He had stumbled out of his bedroom sometime around noon. He dumped a small amount of coke in a nasal spray bottle filled with saline. He remembered meeting his friends for lunch, voices being raises and punches being thrown. He must've gotten high and decided to go for a walk.

Tristan sighed. He started looking around for landmarks, street signs, anything to give him some clue of where he was. He could see Columbia University not far from where he was, and right down the road was a neon sign advertising a local bar. Tristan smirked. Libations was just what the doctor ordered. He'd have a few drinks. Maybe find a girl to head home with. Or if not, he'd call a cab, so he wouldn't have to bother trying to remember how to get home. This might be a good day after all.

He walked in and immediately went up to the bar. There was only one stool open, and it was next to a pretty brown haired, blue eyed girl he thought looked familiar. He was sure he knew her from somewhere, he just couldn't quite place where from. He turned his attention away from the girl when the bartender walked over.

"What can I get ya?" The older man asked.

"Can I get a whiskey straight?" Tristan responded.

When asked, he provided his ID and told the bartender to put it on his black card, which he also handed over. He noticed the girl's drink was empty so he snapped his fingers to get the bartender's attention.

"Sir?" the man asked, slightly agitated.

"And whatever the girl here wants, on me," he turned and smiled at her. "It's the least I can do for you having to endure my presence for any amount of time tonight."

"Oh, well, thank you," she said and then added to the bartender, "Long Island ice tea, please." She turned her attention back to Tristan, feeling that since she let him buy her a drink, she might as well have conversation with him. "So what brings you here? I've not seen you around campus."

Tristan smiled. "Oh no, I'm not a student here. I got lost, found this bar, and here I am. Lucky you."

The girl scoffed and rolled her eyes at him. She and Tristan accepted their drinks from the bartender and sat a few minutes in silence. Suddenly though, Tristan turned on his stool to look at the girl.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you from somewhere? Something about you seems very familiar but I just can't put my finger on it," he said, squinting his eyes.

"Oh come on, if you're going to try to pick me up, at least use a better line than that," the girl laughed.

Tristan rolled his eyes. "Trust me, I don't need lame pick-up lines. I have no problem in the woman department. I'm serious, here. Where are you from? Where did you go to school?"

"I'm from Connecticut, I went to Yale, now I go to Columbia," the girl laughed, deciding to humor him.

"Connecticut? Me too. Well, kind of. But I don't know you from Yale, I didn't go there. High school maybe?" He asked, now really curious as to just where he'd seen this girl before.

"Oh, I went to this school in Hartford, Chilton," she trailed off. Come to think of it, he did look kind of familiar too.

"No! What's your name?" Tristan asked, intrigued. Maybe he knew her from Chilton.

"Rory. Rory Gilmore. And yours?" Rory asked.

Recognition struck him. Mary. His Mary. Of all the gin joints in all the world, and he had to walk into hers. He smirked at the thought. Now, he could get those kinds of references. He had nothing but time now to read and watch old movies. He painted his trademark smile on his lips.

"Ah ah ah. I don't know a 'Rory,'" he said with a hint of laughter in his voice, "I do however remember a 'Mary.' Would you happen to know her?"

Rory's brow furrowed, as she thought back to remember if she knew a Mary from Chilton. It took her a few seconds to catch on, but when she did her eyes widened with surprise. "Tristan! You're Tristan DuGrey?"

"Well, most women just call me 'God,' but I guess I can let you call me 'Tristan' if you like," he said with humor.

"Oh, you arrogant, slimy, chauvinistic, pretentious…" she cut off mid-rant and jump from her chair and hug him. "How have you been?"

Tristan laughed heartily, while holding her in a tight hug. "Good, I've been good. Hey, I know it's cliché, but how about we get out of here? Go get some coffee or something and catch up?"

"Sounds good, I know a place not too far from here," she said.

He had the bartender add her tab to his, and they left the bar together. Tristan was thinking how great it was to run into the one positive influence he had as a child. The girl he had thought he had been in love with in high school, even if it was just lust, intrigue, and the challenge. She was a pure soul, and he didn't have many of those around him anymore. And Rory was thinking how it was nice that while everything in her life was up in the air, she had found some sort of familiarity.

Little did the two know that nothing was as they remembered and tonight would start them on a journey that very well could break them.

___"I need you Here with me Don't take this Too far now Your eyes seem So lonely Inside you Feel like you lost your mind."_


	2. Bernice

Chapter Two: Bernice

"_It's not denial. I'm just selective about that reality I accept." Bill Watterson _

"Tristan!" She screamed at him, stalking down the hallway of her apartment and into the living room.

"Just stop, Rory, just stop," Tristan growled back, retrieving his shirt from where it landed on the sofa less than an hour ago.

"Damn it, Tristan! What's wrong with me? We've been dating for six weeks. I thought things were going well between us. And you're fine fooling around, but then when things start to get heavy…You act like I have the plague, you won't touch me anymore. Clothes on, fine, clothes off—'Oh, can't touch, Rory!' What the hell? " Rory yelled, failing at fighting back tears. What happened to the Tristan DuGrey she knew in high school—the one who wouldn't hesitate to get into bed with her. He hadn't hesitated that first night after they had had coffee, but now he could barely touch her before he ran away.

"Rory," he pleaded with her. "There's nothing wrong with you. I just—I can't do this. I can't do it, not right now." He tried to get closer to her, but she crossed her arms over her bra clad chest and stared down at the hem of her jeans that rested on the top of her foot.

"Then why? Was it that bad that first time? If the sex sucked why are you still with me?" She swiped a hand under her eyes to wipe away the hot tears and smudged her mascara along her cheek.

Tristan sighed. _Because I can't get it up. I'm pathetic, I'm less than a man. I have this amazing, gorgeous girl and I can't perform_, he thought. He got angry. He was angry with himself and embarrassed for being in this situation, and he was pissed off at her for bringing these feelings to light in him.

"I just _can't_," he said through clenched teeth. "Okay?"

Rory swallowed several times and blinked back fresh tears. No, that answer wasn't okay. It did nothing to quell her fears that she was inadequate. Here she was standing half naked in front of a man who had pursued her for half of her high school career, more than willing, and she wasn't good enough. And he wanted her to believe that he just couldn't. That didn't make the ache go away, it didn't warm the coldness that had wrapped itself around her, didn't fill the void in her that he should be filling. No, it wasn't okay at all. But instead she nodded curtly.

"Right. Okay, well, you should go. I have an early class tomorrow," she said, trying to sound firm and dismissive.

"You have class tomorrow? Of fucking course. But not early enough that you'd be bothered screwing me, but since I can't I guess I'll go. Whatever, Rory," he said, turning to leave. "I'm sure you can find someone at the bar down the street more able and willing to fulfill your needs," he sneered before opening the door.

"Screw you, Tristan!" Rory yelled, turning her back to him.

He stood in the open doorway staring at her. He shook his head and said, "Not tonight and there's the problem, right?" He turned and started walking down the hallway fuming.

Rory spun around and stared at the doorway he had just vacated. She couldn't believe him. What an ass! What an arrogant prick! What did she ever see in him? She stalked over to the door and slammed it so hard it shook the windows. She quickly engaged the locks and tuned her back to the door. She leaned against it heavily, feeling the cold wood against her almost bare back. To think, not six hours prior to this event she had been telling her mother that she may not be in love with Tristan yet, but she was well on her way to getting there. Oh, how wrong she had been.

"Ass," Rory whispered to the empty room.

She wrapped her arms around herself and sunk to the floor. She let the heart-wrenching sobs overtake her and just sat on the floor in front of her door and cried until there were no tears left.

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Tristan stormed into his apartment and slammed the door. The cab ride home had done nothing to relieve his fury. Who did she think she was? He had convinced himself that she had seen his weakness, his inadequacy and was throwing it in his face. He surveyed his surroundings and remembered why he had gone to Rory's that night to begin with. Empty beer cans littered the floor, open bottles of liquor sat half emptied on the island in the kitchen. His roommate lay passed out on the leather couch, and in front of him sixteen neat lines of cocaine lay cut and ready for consumption on the black marble coffee table. Powder and residue signified that there were many more than these sixteen lines lined up tonight.

Tristan shook his head. He went into his room absentmindedly pulling off his shoes and socks as soon as he passed through the entryway. Two steps in and a shard of glass cut through the skin on the bottom of his foot. Tristan cursed and reached down to pull the glass out of his foot. Straightening himself up, he took a moment to look at his room. His mattress had been pulled off the box springs, his desk drawers and dresser drawers were opened and items were hanging out of their depths. His closet doors were open and clothes had been torn off the hanger. He followed the trail of glass to find a silver picture frame turn face down. He gulped back the anger at his disheveled room and flipped the frame over, knowing what image it held. It was a candid shot of him and Rory his mother had taken at some DAR function Rory had drug him to. They were on the dance floor, held tight in each other's arms, smiling. He threw the frame to the floor and rushed out of his room to the kitchen.

He grabbed a bottle of tequila and quickly drank down its contents. He threw the empty bottle at his roommate, missing his target, the bottle collided with the wall behind the couch and glass fell from the wall like rain. Tristan eyed the contents of the coffee table before hastily making his way to it, dropping to his knees and grabbing a discarded neon green straw from the floor. He made quick work of four lines on the table, dipping his fingers in a glass of clear liquid and inhaling the fluid too. The familiar sting of cocaine in his nostrils was accompanied by the burn of vodka. He stood and grabbed another bottle of alcohol from the island and made his way through the apartment, finally leaning against a wall near the bathroom and sliding to the floor. He leant his head against the wall, drank straight from his bottle, and closed his eyes waiting for the drip.

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_When Tristan opened his eyes next, he was in hell. He could hear the whirling of fan blades, trying to cool the unbearable heat of this wretched place. He was lying flat on his back on a rock hard cot, the smell of antiseptics, sickness, and death stinging his nose. There was a searing pain in his leg. He sat up and looked around. He was in a med tent somewhere in Iraq. He remembered that he had gotten cut on his leg and needed stitches. He fingered the still oozing wound, drawing his blood coated fingers away gingerly. He stared at his blood on his fingers, fixated for a long time until he heard shuffling next to him._

"_Well, good morning, soldier," the person said, and Tristan's eyes snapped to her in recognition._

_Rory Gilmore, dressed in an old fashioned white nurse's outfit, sat with him on the edge of his cot._

"_Rory?" He asked, not believing his eyes. What the hell was she doing in Iraq? Didn't she know it wasn't safe for her here?_

"_I thought you were never going to wake up," she smiled at him. She reached for a tray and brought it to him. "Here this will fix you right up."_

_Tristan glanced at the tray expecting medicine of some sort. Instead he found a tumbler full of whiskey, two neat lines of cocaine and a rolled up single note, and Camel menthol cigarette and old fashioned silver lighter. He looked from the tray to Rory's eyes questioningly._

"_Well, I thought this was what you wanted?" She asked sweetly. Just then she noticed someone else approaching them. "Oh, there you are sweetheart. I've been worried about you."_

_Tristan's gaze followed Rory's to see a young girl, five or six years old, approaching the cot. She had strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was wearing thin pink cotton pants but a heavy white coat. He thought it was odd that she wore a coat in the middle of the desert. He looked between the girl and Rory trying to figure who she was and why they were there. Before he could ask the question that was plaguing his mind, the little girl smiled at him._

"_Daddy, what have you done?" She asked, still smiling. "You've gone and ruined everything." _

_The little girl who called him daddy shook her head and opened her coat. Around her petite abdomen was a homemade bomb with a string-pull detonator. Rory sat frozen, smiling at the little girl like a statue, and Tristan was shocked and couldn't move his limbs. He sat frozen, struggling to move to stop what he knew was coming but unable to, as his daughter pulled the string and the bomb exploded. His vision was filled with bright white light and a roaring boom filled his ears._

_The light faded and the dust settled. Tristan sat unharmed on his cot, but everything around was destroyed. Rory in her absurd little nurse's outfit was reduced to unrecognizable carnage. The little girl, his daughter, lay dead just feet from him._

_Her last words rang through his mind._

"_Daddy, what have you done?"_

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Tristan came to covered in a cold sweat. The room was spinning and he felt as if he was suffocating. He tried standing, but lost his balance and fell to his knees. He braced himself with his arms as he retched onto the floor. After a couple minutes, the room seemed to slow its spinning and Tristan once again tried to stand. He took a shaky step forward, but his foot landed in warm, slippery vomit and he fell again. His eyes closed instinctively as he hit the floor and when opened them he was face-to-face with the bloody remnants of the Rory from his dream. He couldn't control himself and he retched again. Tristan crawled on his hands and knees through his own vomit into the living room determined to do whatever it took to get that image out of his head. He didn't care if it killed him.

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Several hours had passed before Cory, Tristan's roommate, woke up on the couch. He groaned slightly and wrinkled his nose at the smell. The apartment smelled of alcohol and vomit. Man, was Tristan going to be pissed. Good thing he was out with that girl tonight, maybe Cory could get the apartment cleaned before he got home. He sat up and shook his head trying to clear away the fuzz and the cobwebs. He blinked several times before he noticed the coffee table. He had distinctly remembered setting up lines of coke before he passed out. Twenty, he remembered twenty. It had only been April and himself left. There was no way April could have consumed eighteen lines of coke herself, but sure enough, he was down to two. And those were smeared on the table with blood. Blood?

Now that he looked around, Cory noticed there were shards of broken glass scattered throughout the apartment. Vomit and blood was ground into the carpet. This wasn't right at all. Something seriously bad was going on. Cory knew he had to find whoever had made this mess. He looked into the kitchen and noticed the bottles that had been lined on the island were either missing or empty and laying on their sides. It was then that he noticed it. A low, guttural almost constant scream was coming from the other side of the island in the kitchen. Cory slowly made his way into the kitchen to find out what was causing the sound.

What he found was Tristan DuGrey, his designer jeans and black sweater covered in blood and vomit, the skin on his hands and feet cut to ribbons with glass still protruding out of some of the wounds. His nose was red and swollen and there was white powder caked around the nostrils. But most disturbing of all, he was letting out the guttural scream, pounding his upper thigh which was visibly twitching and banging his head against the cabinet doors. He was drenched in sweat and if Cory's sense of smell was correct, blood and vomit were not the only bodily fluids present on him. Cory reached out to try to touch him.

"Tristan, man, what the hell happened? Are you okay? Can I get you help?" He asked, scared for his friend.

Tristan clenched his teeth but opened his eyes and looked at Cory. The look in his eyes was animalistic and nothing akin to anything Cory had ever seen in any human being. "Get away from me," Tristan growled, accenting each word with a bang of his head on the cabinets.

Cory got up and hurried into his room grabbing his cell phone. He scanned through his contact list for a number he had never dialed before. He only had this number in case of emergency, and if this wasn't an emergency, he didn't know what was. He hit call and listened to the phone ring four times before someone picked up.

"I hate you!" The person on the line declared.

Cory shook it off and instead asked, "Is this Rory Gilmore?"

Rory woke up a little more, concerned because she didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line. "It is. Who are you?"

"This is Cory Mandlin, Tristan DuGrey's roommate. Listen, Rory, I'm sorry to call so late but I didn't know what else to do. Something is seriously wrong with Tristan and I think he might need some kind of help, but he won't let me near him," he explained.

Rory sighed, but was actually used to these kinds of phone calls having dealt with Logan, Colin, and Finn in college. "Where are you?"

"We're at our apartment."

"I'm on my way, just don't let him leave, okay?" Rory sighed, already pulling on a pair of jeans and digging for a sweater in her closet.

"Oh, I don't think that's going to be a problem," Cory said. "Just hurry, okay?"

Cory hung up the phone and went into the living room to wait for Rory. It was nearly twenty minutes later when she knocked on the door. He opened it and Rory stepped in. Her senses were immediately assaulted. The smells alone were enough to knock you down. But the place look like it had been broken into and ransacked. It was a warzone with broken glass everywhere. Then she heard it. Tristan was in the kitchen screaming, and there were bangs coming from where he was.

"What the hell happened in here?" She yelled as she hurried into the kitchen to find Tristan on the floor, banging his head against the cabinets, screaming. "Tristan!" No response. "Tristan, it's Rory, look at me!" She tried again.

He stopped screaming and banging his head, but instead got a look of panic. "Rory? No! No, no, no, no, no. You're dead. You're dead! I killed you and our daughter, I killed my family! Go away, you're not real, go away!" He chanted in a hurry and started rocking back and forth.

Rory looked wide eyed at Cory hoping for an explanation. Cory shrugged. "I was passed out. But I think he's had a lot of alcohol and even more cocaine. But I'm not sure."

Rory shook her head. "Call an ambulance, he's probably overdosed." As Cory was doing so, she got down on her knees to talk to Tristan. "Tristan, it's me Rory. Shh, don't freak out, I'm here, I'm real, you haven't hurt me. Help's on its way, but I need you to calm down okay?"

Tristan's eyes snapped to her, and he made a move like he was going to push her away, but she wouldn't budge. She should have, because a couple seconds later he projectile vomited right on her and then slumped against the cabinets, unconscious.

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Three hours later, the ambulance had arrived and taken an unconscious Tristan to the hospital. Rory had gotten cleaned up, changed into a pair of sweats and t-shirt she had borrowed from Tristan's closet, and caught a cab to the hospital with Cory. There was no word yet as he was still unconscious, so the two sat out in the waiting room talking.

"So, do you want to tell me what's going on? I didn't even know Tristan did cocaine," Rory said.

"Yeah, he doesn't advertise it. He's been hooked ever since he got back from Iraq. Most of us, it's recreational, but for Tristan it's like water. He needs it to cope, right?"

"He's an addict, then?" Rory said, sighing.

"Yeah, hardcore addict. But he won't admit it and he won't take help from anyone. He has these nightmares. You'll hear him yelling in his sleep, and the next time you see him he'll be floating somewhere in the atmosphere. It's been messing with him a lot too. Whole reason he and his last girlfriend broke up," Cory said shaking his head.

"She broke up with him because he's addicted to cocaine or because he has nightmares?" Rory questioned.

"Neither, it's because he can't put out. See, cocaine, it kills your sex drive. I heard her talking and in eight months, they were able to do the deed maybe twice. And it wasn't resistance on her end, let me tell you," Cory laughed.

Rory shook her head again and sat quietly in thought. Cocaine. It definitely explained a lot. She had gone through a lot with the Limo Boys, but never a hardcore drug addiction. She wasn't sure if it was something she wanted to deal with. If it was something she _could_ deal with. She decided if Tristan admitted he needed help and got it, she'd try. But if he would continue this lifestyle, then she would have to cut her losses. About half an hour later, the doctor came out and told them Tristan was awake and they could go back and see him.

She walked into the room and sighed. He looked so weak and fragile, she just didn't know what to do. She wanted to hold him in her arms and tell him everything was going to be okay, but at the same time, she was furious with him.

"Hey Mary," he croaked, after he realized she came in.

Rory decided to skip a greeting and get straight the point.

"Cocaine, Tristan? Seriously?"

"Rory, I can explain," he started.

"No, Tristan, save it. You have a problem, and you need to get help. If you can't accept that and agree to get the help you need to kick the habit, then we're done," she said.

"I don't have a problem, Rory. Damn it, if you'd just listen to me," Tristan said, starting to get mad.

Rory nodded curtly, much like she had earlier in her apartment. "Goodbye, Tristan," she said and walked out the door, out of the hospital, and out of his life.

"_Coulda been the champagne Coulda been the cocaine Coulda been the way you looked at me That told me we were through"_

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**Author's Note: **There's chapter two. Sorry for the delay. School is crazy, and we are dealing with the fact that my son may be autistic. That and my husband just started a new job and that cut some of my downtime down drastically since I am the sole caregiver for my son during the day now. A lot of research on cocaine dependence and overdose has gone into these two chapters. It's not over, don't worry, there are still five more chapters to go. And again, remember, nothing is mine. I'll post a note in my LJ tomorrow sometime, so be sure to read it. It's in my profile. I won't hold a story hostage for reviews, but I sure do enjoy them. And please be patient, updates may not be timely, but I'll try to make it worth the wait.


	3. My Soul for a Woola

Chapter 3: My Soul for a Woola

"_A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" William Shakespeare, Richard III_

Six-hundred-fifty-seven, twitch, six-hundred-fifty-eight, twitch, six-hundred-fifty-nine. Tristan had been counting the second hand ticking by for eleven minutes. Before lunch he had made it to two-thousand-seven-hundred ticks, which was forty-five minutes. .

"Good afternoon, Tristan. How are you doing today?" A nurse asked, pushing a couple of buttons on the machine to check his blood pressure.

How was he doing? Tristan Dugrey, once known as the King of Chilton, man's man, lady's man, man about town, distinguished honor graduate of Oakridge Military academy, Private First Class Dugrey of the US Army, a decorated Iraqi war veteran, was doing horrible. He had been trapped in that hospital bed for the past two weeks. Where he had once been something to be proud of, now he was just a coked out loser recovering from a binge and overdose. No, his life couldn't have been more of a mess.

"Rory?" He whispered.

The nurse just smiled sadly. They were getting ready to discharge him, and truthfully, she wasn't sure how well he was going to stick to the plan they had laid out for him.

Tristan closed his eyes and leaned his head back against his pillow. He swallowed and licked his lips before speaking. "I ruined everything."

The nurse didn't respond. Honestly, she didn't know what to say. Tristan, in her eyes, was a very lucky young man. His heart should have given out, and the stunt that landed him in her care today should have very well killed him. The fact that he was walking out of here was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle she really hoped he would prove he deserved. She was afraid the next time she heard anything about the boy would be when she read his obituary in the paper.

* * *

Rory's heels clicked on the tile flooring as she walked across her kitchen, balancing a cardboard take-out cup of mediocre coffee, her text books, and her mail. She gingerly set her cup down on the counter and dropped her books and mail next to it. She rifled through the mail, noticing that most were bills until she came to one envelope with the hospital's logo printed on the top. Expecting the worst, she tore into the letter and began reading.

"_Hi, my name is Tristan DuGrey and I'm an addict. My drug of choice is cocaine. I'm also an alcoholic. The cocaine use started after an honorable discharge from the US Army. I served four years and did two tours in Iraq. I started drinking my junior year of high school. I am currently unemployed and am taking a sabbatical from Columbia where I was attending under my G.I. Bill with assistance from my trust fund." _

"_Did that sound stiff to you, too? Yeah, I thought so. Listen, I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. I've made a lot of excuses too. I've been in this hospital room for the last two weeks detoxing. I've had a lot of time to think. I want to say I don't have a problem, but obviously I do. When you last saw me I was as high as I have ever been, covered in my own blood and vomit, just a few moments away from dying. If Cory hadn't called you, if you hadn't have come, I would be dead right now. Thank you seems inadequate. I've had people save my life before when I was in service, but what you did, it was so much more than that. As thanks, I want to offer you an explanation."_

"_You remember the egotistical, arrogant boy you met sophomore year at Chilton that harassed you and called you 'Mary.' You see, that day at Chilton was my first day back. My grandfather had had a stroke over the summer. But that wasn't really why I was gone. My parents just used that as an excuse so nobody knew where I really was. I was in a youth treatment facility. While my grandfather was lying in the hospital, potentially dying, I tried to kill myself. I just couldn't bear the thought of living in this world when the one decent person I had ever known was gone."_

"_Let me take you back. I'm the youngest of three children. My older brother is in investments like my father, my sister is a music teacher. My mother is gone. She's not dead, she's just gone. She is still married to my father and they still live together. But after I was born, she changed. She—I was abused a lot as a child. My father never really paid much attention to the kids, and my mother hated us. We trapped her in a life she didn't want to be a part of. My grandfather rescued us. He took us away from the house as much as he could and made our lives bearable."_

"_Fast forward to high school. I guess it all just accumulated to the point that I couldn't take it anymore. I started acting up. I started drinking. I was drunk when I broke into Bowman's dad's safe that day. I was drunk because you had chosen farmer John over me. Like I said, I am egotistical. But I'm also damaged. It wasn't just a slap to the ego—something I probably needed back then. I took it personally. I didn't deserve you back then, and it hurt. You were right in not being with me, I would have only broke your heart. But you weren't the reason I drank, I blamed you for a while. You were one small piece added to the already monstrous pile of excuses I had built up in my life."_

"_I went to military school. It was liberating being away from my abusive mother and my negligent father. I drank, I pulled pranks, I slept with any girl willing when we were allowed to roam the streets of North Carolina. But the structure and discipline was something I loved. The sergeants were like parents I never had. I joined the army. I went to Iraq. I can't tell you that story right now, but maybe, someday, I will be able to sit down and write it for you. Or, if you'll ever forgive me, I'll tell it to you, holding your hand and drinking a cup of coffee."_

"_I came back from my second tour in Iraq and was discharged honorably. I started Columbia. That's when I really started messing with cocaine. I have nightmares about the things I saw in Iraq. The things we did. I would use the cocaine to forget them. I tried it one time at a party a fellow classmate was hosting. It was easy to ingest and it made me forget. I get high daily, most of the time several times a day. When I'm with you, I can usually cut it back to twice a day. When I'm alone, I've used upwards of six times a day."_

"_I'm an addict. I was high when I first saw you after all those years. I was high the last time I saw you two weeks ago. I was high the first time we slept together. Hell, I don't even remember the first time I took you to bed. Something I had been dreaming about since high school, and I have no recollection of it. I'm actually surprised it happened at all. My performance, well it hasn't been up to par since I left the Army. It's probably the coke."_

"_So, there is my abbreviated laundry list of excuses. I'm an alcoholic and an addict because I've made poor decisions because my life sucked and I joined the Army and now my life sucks in a whole new way that I don't know how to deal with. I met with a man last week. He was a General and is the overnight nurse's husband. He says that it sounds like I have posttraumatic stress order. He wants me to get evaluated and join a group."_

"_I should have gone to my superiors for help. I should have talked to somebody, anybody about my problems. Not just from the war, but from my family too. My grandfather would have helped me. I should have talked to you. I lied to you and hid what I was doing from you. I couldn't stand to think of you judging me or disapproving of me. It was stupid and selfish, but I couldn't tell you."_

"_I need help. I can't do this on my own. I am so sorry for hurting you. The last thing I ever wanted to do is hurt you, you have to believe that. I understand if you can never forgive me. I just hope that once I am out you'll be willing to talk to me. Deepest regards, Tristan."_

Rory reread the letter five times. She couldn't believe what Tristan had gone through, and what he had become. All the time they were together, and she didn't know any of this. She was mad, but a part of her was sad for him and worried for him. Another part of her understood. She had never been abused and she had never turned to drugs. But she knew that a lot of her strength had come from her mom and all the support she received from her and from the town she grew up in. Tristan had things so much harder than she had ever had and was left to deal with it alone. He was still wrong and stupid and selfish, but she could see where he just needed to escape and cocaine and alcohol was his means for doing so.

She retrieved her phone from her jacket pocket and made a call. Once hanging up, she stood from her sitting position on the floor—she hadn't even noticed sliding to the floor while she read the letter—and made her way to the door. Tristan needed help, and it didn't seem like he had many people to turn to. He wasn't forgiven, but she couldn't turn her back on him now.

* * *

Author's Note: I'm back! I'm sorry this chapter was so short and that it took so long to get out. I've had A LOT of life stuff that got in the way of writing. But I'm back now, and on a schedule. I won't post chapter 4 until February 4 at the soonest. Check my LiveJournal for more author's notes and the posting schedule. Loves.


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